


Storm-tossed

by angesradieux



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slavery, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28329540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angesradieux/pseuds/angesradieux
Summary: Athelstan is scared of rainstorms. It takes Ragnar some time to notice, and longer to understand why. When he does, he tries to help, but he's never had a way with words.
Comments: 25
Kudos: 27
Collections: Darkfics Super-Duper Mega Collection





	Storm-tossed

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Juliko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juliko/pseuds/Juliko) in the [Darkfics_super_duper_mega_collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Darkfics_super_duper_mega_collection) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Basically, this prompt encourages writers to really go deep into a bad experience that the character had--whether it be a recent one, one from their childhood, etc.--and explore it and anything about it--the effects it had on said character, the ramifications it has, the perspective it gives them, the effects it has on their lives, and so on. This is so writers can use it as a means to explore it in detail and flex their muscles on how to portray subjects like this in a more nuanced, sincere manner, rather than just for shock value or forcing drama. Anything goes for this one, so feel free to go nuts.
> 
> Author's Note: Yes, yes, yes. I know I'm absolutely horrible to poor Athelstan. I'm sorry, he just begs to be hurt! Anyway, I hope none of the characters seem too out of character. I hope you enjoy it, and any feedback is, as always, deeply appreciated!
> 
> And if you could make this not anonymous, I'd appreciate it :)
> 
> ~Anges

Athelstan hates the rain.

It hadn’t always been this way. Once upon a time, rain felt like a rebirth. After a good storm, the world looked just a little bit greener and the distinctive scent that hung in the air in the immediate aftermath energized him and fortified his soul.

That was before the storm that carried the Northmen to Lindisfarne.

Ragnar doesn’t notice at first. The priest is always looking at his family as if they’re a pack of angry wolves just waiting to set upon him. It's near impossible to tell the slave was any more on edge than usual. The first rainstorm on Ragnar’s farm, Athelstan’s eyes are just a hair wider and the already quiet man speaks even less than he otherwise might, but it’s not enough to draw anyone’s attention.

The sound of the droplets striking the ground brings him back to that night he’d looked out into the sea with his brothers, convinced the End of Days was upon them. What he wouldn’t give to go back to that day, knowing what he does now. He’d have cherished those moments of fellowship, even despite the fear, had he known they would be among their last. But he can’t go back. He can only sit in his corner by the fire, eyes closed as he prays to try to block out the sound. His fist is clenched so tightly about his crucifix that as the metal bites into flesh, he wonders if even the smooth, polished edges might draw blood.

He sleeps badly that night, although that’s hardly unusual. Sometimes Athelstan is so exhausted he can’t help but fall into a blissfully dreamless sleep, but most nights once he closes his eyes he is tormented by the glint of axes and the metallic stench of blood in the air.

The rain doesn’t let up.

In the morning, he hears it strike the earth in its relentless staccato.

He sits at the table with Ragnar and his family for breakfast, but he doesn’t eat. He tries but finds the sight of the meal turns his stomach. No one bothers to remark upon it. It hadn’t taken long for Ragnar to realize that the Saxon’s appetite isn’t anywhere near as hearty as his own, so it doesn’t seem particularly out of character.

What does raise an eyebrow is the way he balks over being sent to feed the animals. Thus far, his slave had been diligent and obedient. He doesn’t protest immediately, but Ragnar sees him stop abruptly at the door. He rears back a little like a spooked horse and dares to glance back at his master, a small crease in his brow.

The Northman’s eyes are amused and a smile plays about his lips as he cajoles, “Come, now, priest. It’s only water. It’ll not hurt you. And the work must be done, whether it is wet or dry outside.” Ragnar, too, will venture out and get wet. It’s just the way of the world. There’s no anger or malice in his bearing as he stands, but the mere sound of furniture scraping against the floor is enough to make the Saxon bolt.

The salty odor of brackish water from the nearby fjord and the sensation of water on his face sends a shiver down his spine. His breath catches as suddenly the memory of sitting on a boat, hands bound and habit soaked from the spray of salt water as his brothers shivered and died beside him is all too vivid.

He keeps his head down as he works, trying to decide which is worse—to remain outside in the rain, or be forced to face his master. He ends up lingering longer than necessary as an excuse to keep his distance from the Northman. He hopes the bleating of the sheep might silence the cacophony of desperate prayers spoken by the broken voices of men Athelstan will never again see in this life.

It doesn’t.

The ground feels unsteady, as if it’s rocking the way the boat had as it had been tossed about by the waves. He reaches out to brace against the first thing he can. His hand lands on a sheep, but the momentary stability it offers is soon disrupted as the animal moves, leaving Athelstan once again adrift.

When he returns to the house, he’s shivering.

Lagertha offers him one of Ragnar’s tunics. It’s not cold out, but once he’s changed out of his wet clothes, she calls him to sit by the fire to warm himself. Except the fire isn’t going to do much anything to ease the tremors. Still, he doesn’t have it in him to argue and besides, he finds Lagertha’s company more tolerable than that of his master. She is terrifying. But, it’s not her face that he sees flecked with the blood of his brothers, with eyes burning like the devil’s, standing in the ruins of the monastery when he goes to sleep at night.

That doesn’t stop him from flinching when a hand lights on his shoulder.

His heart thumps in his chest and he braces for… Well, he doesn’t know what, really. All he knows is that he can’t trust these people.

She chuckles. “It’s alright, Priest. No one here is going to harm you.”

He wants to say that they already have but his sense of self-preservation holds his tongue. Athelstan simply gets up and finds something to occupy himself—there is always work to be done, anyway.

The monk does his best to make himself scarce.

In the morning, the rain lets up and he is more himself. If anyone had noticed something off about him the previous day, no one says anything. Athelstan still startles easily and makes a point of staying out of arm’s reach of Ragnar as much as he can. He’s a skittish little thing, even on a good day. But at least while the skies are clear, the most vivid memories settle into background noise—ever present, but muted enough that the day’s labor and nightly prayers are often suitable distractions.

Days pass. Life settles into as much a rhythm as it can for a slave in a foreign land. Gyda has taken a shine to him and makes it a point to speak softly and gently, trying her best not to scare him. Her little shows of kindness sometimes cause the slave to smile despite himself. Ragnar and Lagertha aren’t unkind, exactly. But they’re bold and brash and don’t need to try very hard at all to be intimidating. It’s just in their nature. Athelstan is absolutely starved for the soft, quiet companionship he’d known among his brothers and Gyda’s patient smiles and careful words are as close to it as he can come.

When he’s confronted with a new skill he must learn, he seeks out her help as much as possible. She’s a much better teacher than her father.

Soon, angry gray clouds roll in and darken the sky and Athelstan’s anxiety begins to mount. Perhaps Gyda can see the distress in his expression, because she approaches him with her usual caution. “Priest?” She reaches out to take his hand, frowning a little when he draws in a sharp breath and instinctively jerks away. “I’d like you to help me. Please?”

She sticks by him and has him help her with her chores, but even her presence doesn’t seem to set him at ease. Just about every sound has him looking over his shoulder. His eyes flick skyward every now and again, his brow creasing.

Finally, she asks, “What’s the matter, Priest?”

His back straightens just a little. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Gyda doesn’t believe him, but she at least has the grace not to say so.

By midafternoon the first drops have begun to fall. Athelstan is overcome by a sense of dread that leaves him restless and unable to focus. Gyda watches him flit from one thing to another, a distant and somewhat dazed look in his eye, as if he can see something invisible to the rest of the world.

She also sees the way the sound of Ragnar’s voice makes him freeze for a moment. His head jerks up and he seems to hold his breath as he stays stock still. Ragnar’s having a good laugh over something with Bjorn, not scolding or even really shouting, but that doesn’t seem to matter.

Even as he goes back to his task, Athelstan keeps an eye on his master.

He doesn’t hear a loving exchange between father and son. Instead, he hears the cruel, bellowing laughter of men pillaging his home.

The wind begins to howl and lightning splits the sky.

As they sit down for dinner, Athelstan bows his head to pray over his meal. A clap of thunder silences the hushed words and sends the priest into the air. There’s a soft _thud_ as his knees hit the table. The next flash of lightning is as the flash of the knife blade once pressed to his neck and the thunder the pounding of feet trampling the sanctuary floor.

They could have killed him that night. Ragnar’s brother _wanted_ to kill him. Athelstan regrets begging for his life, wishing he had instead died a martyr. Had he known the alternative, he would have gladly gone to be with his Lord in Heaven rather than being forced to live among these heathens.

Bjorn laughs openly. “Are all the men in England cowards like you?” Gyda kicks him under the table, but that does nothing to stifle his malicious glee. “I see now why it was so easy for father to come back with so much treasure if you were among those left to guard it.”

Athelstan’s hands clench into fists. Anger darkens his eyes, but for now he says nothing.

“Leave him alone, Bjorn.” It’s Gyda who comes to his defense. The notion that he needs a young girl to fight his battles for him does very little to improve Bjorn’s opinion of him. Athelstan doesn’t care what the boy thinks of him, except it motivates Bjorn to antagonize him in whatever ways he can.

Ragnar’s eyes glitter with amusement. “It’s alright, Priest. I recall Thor’s hammer frightened Bjorn, too, when he was younger.”

“Father!” Bjorn whines.

At the patronizing tone of his voice, something in Athelstan snaps. He slams a hand on the table. “I’ve no interest in your false gods.” It’s the first time any of them have heard him raise his voice.

It’s also the first time Athelstan finds the courage to hold Ragnar’s gaze, although his heart still thumps frantically in his chest. Ragnar’s eyes narrow a fraction as his expression shifts from amused to contemplative. He expected to see anger in the priest’s eyes, but what lurks in their depths is something else entirely that he can’t quite place. Particularly not while it’s obscured by fear.

“Go to bed, Priest. Perhaps you’ll wake with a more civil tongue.”

The command is given gently, and yet Athelstan knows it’s intended to remind him of his place. As if he could ever forget. He retreats to his corner by the fire and pulls his knees up to his chest. He tries to focus on prayer but each clap of thunder pulls him out of it, reminding him that his home has been desecrated, his brothers are dead, and much as Athelstan still tries to pray, it feels as though God has abandoned him.

It isn’t until he’s certain everyone else is asleep that he finally allows himself to weep.

Athelstan and Ragnar settle into a tense stalemate. That morning, he doesn’t speak to his master and Ragnar seems willing enough to leave him alone for now. He catches a concerned glance from Gyda, but even she gives him some space. Still, she makes a point of greeting him with a big smile and a bright, “Good morning, Priest.”

He at least breaks his silence to reply in kind.

The skies are clear and Athelstan disappears outside to tend to the animals. As long as the sun is out, he takes to spending much of the day outdoors where it’s far easier to maintain distance. It doesn’t always work—sometimes Ragnar calls Athelstan to assist him with something, or Lagertha has need of him, and he must obey—but he’s grateful for whatever refuge he can find.

The next time it rains, Rollo has come to visit. The ale has been flowing freely and both Ragnar and his brother grow ever louder—and less aware of Athelstan—as the evening wears on. They seem to remember him only when their cups are empty which, frankly, suits him well enough.

Rollo waves him over and he carries a pitcher to the table as thunder claps. Athelstan flinches and the pitcher clatters onto the table, sending ale spilling over the wood and into the laps of the men seated there. His face goes white and his breath catches. Before he can speak, Rollo stands, towering over the Saxon, hissing, “Stupid slave.” The back of his hand strikes Athelstan, the force of the blow sending his head whipping to the side.

Blue eyes look from Ragnar to Rollo for a moment. And then he runs.

It takes Ragnar a moment to get to his feet and stumble after his slave. Rollo makes to follow, but a sharp glare pins him in place.

He finds Athelstan just outside the house on his knees with his arms wrapped around himself.

The sound of boots approaching sees his head jerk up, eyes wide and hazy. “Don’t kill me.”

He speaks the same words he had when Ragnar found him in that church and shrinks back as Ragnar approaches. Athelstan sees gray eyes cold as the steel of a blade. The same eyes that watched with vicious pleasure as his brother took an axe to the beautifully crafted cross that had hung in the sanctuary.

Ragnar laughs. “Come, Priest. I’m hardly going to kill a good slave over spilled ale.”

His attempt to make light of it doesn’t call Athelstan back to the present. The priest curls in on himself. “Please. Don’t kill me.”

The slick wetness of the mud is as the blood of his brothers that had stained the floors of the monastery. Powerless and frozen in fear, Athelstan squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the knife to cut the soft flesh his throat, his lips moving rapidly as he prays for the deliverance of his soul.

Mirth gives way to concern. “Priest.” Ragnar’s tone is altogether different—more gentle than Athestan has ever known it to be.

He crouches before the priest as one might a wounded animal. Cautiously, he says, “Rollo was wrong to strike you and he and I will have words about it later. But come back inside, Priest. He’ll not harm you.”

Thor’s hammer strikes once more, pulling a sob from the Saxon’s lips. He will not open his eyes.

Athelstan gives a harsh gasp as Ragnar takes hold of his chin, tilting his head up. “Look at me.” His grip is loose, guiding rather than pulling, but the priest can think only of the bruising fingers that had gripped him at Lindisfarne, first poised to slit his throat and then forcing him aboard a ship.

Slowly, he opens eyes that remain distant. He’s panting and trembling and Ragnar doubts whether the priest actually sees him at all.

“Dead,” he rasps painfully. “They’re all dead.” This man has killed his brothers and is going to kill him, too.

Finally, Ragnar thinks he understands.

He wraps his arms around the priest and draws him into a hug. It’s awkward—Ragnar isn’t good at this sort of thing—and at first Athelstan resists. He twists and turns and tries to shove the Northman away. But Ragnar is far stronger and finally he relents, slumping against his captor. The heathen speaks to him, trying to coax him back to the present.

“You’re alright. You’re safe now.”

Except he isn’t. He’s still trapped among the heathens, where he will never be safe again. Only, he doesn’t have the energy to tell Ragnar so. Instead, he rests his head against his master’s shoulder, shivering in his arms.

“It will fade in time.” He’d heard of men scarred by their first taste of battle, but he’d not heard of any who remained so. Eventually, the shock would subside.

Athelstan disagrees. He can never unsee the massacre at Lindisfarne, nor can he pretend he never heard the cries of men in their death throws, or the howls of the heathens as they brought their fury down upon the monastery. He can never be whole again. But he doesn’t argue—there’s little point.

He hates the rain and he hates his master, but he knows well enough that he can escape neither.


End file.
